


And the blue bead began spinning again

by Dummy_Writer



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Harry-centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 00:35:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5847070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dummy_Writer/pseuds/Dummy_Writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry wakes to too much quiet, too little life and too much time on his hand to think of all the things he did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the blue bead began spinning again

* * *

 

 

He wakes to consciousness hearing a dripping sound. It was a heavy sound, not the almost shrill sound of water hitting tile, no this was different, a viscous fluid plopping to the ground. His eyes open only to close almost immediately as a piercing pain fills his head and he breathes heavily to calm himself down.

 

It takes a good few minutes before he can open his eyes without feeling debilitating pain but he manages and he sees a hospital room. He can tell by the many machines he’s hooked up to that he’s in an ICU and sits up ignoring the protest his ribs give out at the movement. He closes his eyes again and breathes deeply, mind clearer now and looks over the room with the eyes of a Kingsman.

 

The source of the dripping sound is found easily. There is a chair in the room, one occupied by a dead body wearing a lab coat from what Harry can see of it. He is—or rather, _was_ —young judging by the nails of the hand hanging off the side, all he can see due to the way it’s turned around from him. Blood is running down the underside of the hand steadily and the red reminds him of the church, of Valentine, of Eggsy, of being _shot_ in the fucking head.

 

He closes his eyes again. A breath in, a breath out, a breath in, a breath out, a breath in...

 

One shaky breath out.

 

He unhooks himself from the machines, hands too sluggish really to achieve the aggressive speed he is fond of which is probably for the best. Right now he sees the arm dripping red, remembers a massacre in a church, remembers seeing nothing but _rage_ , a crimson type of rage he’d never even known existed until then and his mind wants to feel the pain of yanking the needles out of his wrist even when the rest of him doesn’t.

 

He feels naked without the glasses. It probably has to do with the chill of being in a hospital gown as well but without his glasses he is truly vulnerable. He doesn’t need a gun to shoot, doesn’t need a bulletproof suit to be reckless but he needs his glasses to be a Kingsman and he needs to be Galahad not Harry Hart because Harry Hart just lost control and killed dozens of people in a church.

 

Hospitals are always quiet but this one is particularly so. The wound on his head is screaming at him to be careful but he’s had worse and he manages to walk, albeit on slightly unsteady feet, and turns the chair around.

 

He was right, the man is young. He also has a scalpel in his neck and under the nails is blood and flesh, knuckles bruised in proof of his own violence, the stark white of his broken humerus sticking out of the flesh in proof of the violence done to him.

 

Galahad is a Kingsman agent, trained to find resources where there are none so he feels no qualms rifling through the young man’s pockets to find an access card. Timothy Raeken, it says and has his picture on it. It’s a terrible photo, he’s caught mid-blink, the flash makes a zit on his cheek a bit too clear and his mouth is half open.

 

Timothy won’t be able to smile for a picture again. Harry doesn’t know why that thought plays in his mind over and over again.

 

He stumbles out into a hallway that is empty of all life. Drag marks in blood mar the pristine white tiles, one room’s door is held ajar by the body lying in the doorway, a bloody leg twisted at an unnatural angle half out of it. A teddy bear holding a heart with the words ‘Get well soon’ on it in obnoxious letters is near the lift, it’s ear torn off, cotton stuffing lying around it. Harry swipes the access card and waits for the lift to come up and sees a balloon, bright green touching the ceiling near a window and walks toward it to see. Outside the roads are empty save for a few people, walking slowly, like zombies and another few lying in pools of their own blood. An old man is sitting on the curb, his head cradled in his hands and from the way his shoulders jolt every few seconds Harry knows he’s crying.

 

When he finds his way out of the hospital it is that man he goes to.

 

“Could you,” He coughs to clear his throat but the shaky edge to it doesn’t leave. “What happened?”

 

Harry knows why he’s asking this man. The rest haven’t reached Acceptance yet, still in shock and denial but this man has accepted what has happened, has begun to grieve. This man will not lie for the sake of convincing himself of a different reality.

 

And Harry learns of what happened here. That a hate church had been massacred and the bodies transferred to morgue here, that angry protesters had shown up and then police as well to control the crowd and it was right in the middle of it all that their free SIMS had done _something_ and chaos had unfolded. The well armed mob that had come into creation then had destroyed everything they could, everyone they could.

 

Harry thanks him and walks off to the police station. It’s a small town really and it has gotten much smaller in the last few hours. The station is almost empty save for three people, two women and a man, well more a boy really, bruised and hurt but still working, who go through the motions of answering the phones, telling people they have no staff available yet with steady voices and red rimmed eyes.

 

He asks them if they have his things from the church incident and sees them relax just a bit at the sight of another person, another living person. They do have his possessions but it is in evidence and the investigation is still ongoing. He doesn’t have to wait long until they’re distracted and makes his way into the storage place anyway and takes his suit, his earpiece and his glasses, stepping carefully over the few dead bodies he finds there. He finds, inexplicably, an umbrella at one of the desks and picks it up. It isn’t his rainmaker but the weight of it in his hand is comforting so he takes it knowing well that its owner wouldn’t be using it anytime soon and then sneaks out of the place.

 

The glasses are damaged but not beyond repair, the frame shattered around one lens and he finds an empty seat in a park and sits there for a while. The birds still sing, the sky is still a pretty blue and the grass is the deep blue green that is characteristic of the place. He fiddles with the glasses until they work, streaming static and he takes out the toolkit sown into his jacket pocket and works at it until it starts transmitting, finally. He hears Merlin bark out orders and clears his throat before calling Merlin’s name, his real name and not just the moniker that has been awarded him.

 

_“Harry?”_ Merlin says with a trembling voice and he remembers that Merlin was watching from the other side of the glasses which means he must have seen...

 

Ah. He must have seen the bullet coming at Harry.

 

“Merlin, I don’t suppose you could pick me up form Kentucky? I find myself quite inconvenienced at the moment.”

 

Harry doesn’t know how he’s managing to say it so calmly. On the other end he can hear Merlin’s mug breaking, his second one in the past month, quite a record really.

 

_“Fucking hell,”_ Merlin whispers weakly and Harry’s been sitting on that bench unmoving for long enough that a pigeon flies down right next to Harry’s feet and coos. “ _I can be there in twelve hours.”_ He says firm and apologetic and Harry nods.

 

“Understood.”

 

Twelve hours.

 

He could wait twelve hours.


End file.
